


To Let a Queen Kneel in the Streets and Beg for Grace in Vain.

by JackEPeace



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Framework, Game of Thrones inspired death and vengence, Next Gen 2.0 Verse, Revenge Plots, dead children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-12-11 23:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackEPeace/pseuds/JackEPeace
Summary: “I’ll kill her.”A promise.“I’ll kill all of them.”Another.(AKA a collection of Next Gen 2.0 fics where all the children die and we can't have nice things)





	1. Lavinia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plinys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/gifts), [ophvelias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophvelias/gifts).



> By request, here are the Next Gen 2.0 fics on AO3. I expect those comments now guys -validate me at any time ;) 
> 
> I'll post future ficlets here too because, let's be honest, this verse still has so much to give us. 
> 
> Title from Titus Andronicus because these fics are equal parts inspired by Game of Thrones and Shakespeare and I am a nerd.

Whenever he can, Fitz likes to be there when his daughter gets out of school. Sometimes his work keeps him locked away; there's always a task to tend to, something deemed important by someone else. But several days a week, he's able to push those tasks aside, to leave them for the morning, certain that paperwork or person will keep until then. He washes the blood from his hands, he re-knots his tie and leaves his office.

The day is pleasant enough, still early enough into fall that there's only an edge of chill to the heat of the day, a promise of something to come. Fitz ignores the glances he gets from the people waiting outside the building to retrieve their children as well. These are people he knows, people who think they know him, all important members of the upper echelon and still they stare. Still they know that he isn't truly one of them. And Fitz doesn't mind.

He's wanted to feel that way -separate and untouchable- for his entire life.

The building is old, as large and imposing at the families who send their children to the school. Sometimes, Fitz has his doubts, conflicted about whether they're making the right choice for Lyra by enrolling her in a place that teaches Hydra doctrine alongside geography and cursive. But he knows what she's destined for: the Academy and then a place on the Council. He knows the day will come when she sits at the head of the table, taking her mother's place, and that everything she learns here will only make her all the more capable to rule later.

Sometimes, though, Fitz remembers his own childhood, the brief years of his life before his mother left and his father found something almost as appealing to him as drinking. He'd gone to a school with a playground and an assortment of poor and imperfect children and teachers who read books about talking spiders and radiant pigs to silent classrooms.

Sometimes, he wants that for Lyra.

Sometimes, he thinks he's only looking at his early years through rose colored glasses.

Fitz's thoughts stop wandering when the doors to the building finally open and the children emerge. Most of them are collected by nannies and stand-in caregivers and he slips off his sunglasses, tucking them into the pocket of his jacket as he watches the Daniels' nanny collect the rosy-checked, tow-headed twins from the crowd. He searches for his own daughter, smiling to himself when he notices her.

Lyra looks so much like Ophelia that it sometimes catches him by surprise. Ophelia doesn't talk about her own mother, doesn't mention those years of her life, the years that Fitz imagines she spent in her own school with a playground and imperfect children before coming here. He doesn't know if she looks like the woman whose name she never mentions, if she favored her mother the way that Lyra favors her. Lyra has her sharply beautiful features, the same thick dark hair that falls across her bony shoulders in waves. And she has his eyes.

The same eyes that settle on him, brightening when she realizes that he's there waiting for her. Fitz can't help but smile, the expression instantaneous and called forth without thinking. This girl, his daughter, always manages to have that effect on him.

Something else she gets from her mother.

Lyra starts in his direction and Fitz can't help but take in her appearance, the way her skirt swishes as she walks, how one of her knee-high socks is slipping down to her ankle, the scuff on her polished shoe.

Fitz is still taking note of the smudge when he first notices the slight falter in Lyra's step, not so much a stumble as a sudden uncertainty. An unevenness. He looks up and Lyra's smile seems to have faded slightly, her eyes suddenly glassy and unfocused. She takes another step and this time it is a stumble, her body wobbling uncertainly.

He moves toward her, leaving the car idling beside the curb. Fitz kneels down in front of his daughter, reaching out to steady her. Lyra blinks at him and he can feel right away that something is wrong. The cold certainty in his chest, the tightness in his throat, won't let him pretend otherwise.

"Lyra?" Fitz pushing her hair away from her forehead, her skin sticky and hot against his fingers. "Are you alright?"

Her head leans forward slightly, her eyes unfocused even though her head is turned toward him. "I don't feel good," Lyra says quietly, swallowing. "Daddy, I-"

Lyra shivers in his grip and Fitz watches as the color drains from her cheeks, turning her skin into a sickly greyish color. Her lips are pale, her body continuing to shiver beneath his hands and Fitz can barely breathe around the tightness in his throat. His heart feels like it's pounding so hard it'll never slow, despite his attempts to reassure himself, to remember that children get sick all the time, that the sudden onset of a cold or fever isn't uncommon among children her age.

But there's something wrong, he knows. And he hates the voice in the back of his mind that won't let him deny it.

Lyra's head bobs forward again and Fitz reaches out, resting his hand against her cheek. "Lyra?" He says, embarrassed by the way her name comes out like a croak. "Lyra, sweetie, what's-" She looks at him, a trickle of blood coming from her nose. "Lyra!"

She doesn't answer, stumbling forward and into his arms. Fitz doesn't even remember making the active decision to sit down there on the sidewalk but he logically knows it must have happened, given the fact that he's sitting, cradling his daughter in his lap, shouting her name, his hand against her cheek.

Lyra's skin is hot, sweaty, greyish. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused. She's limp in his arms and, worse, Fitz can feel the rattle of her breathing, the way it whistles past her lips. "Lyra." He's not sure if he's whispering it or shouting. "Lyra, baby, talk to me. Lyra!"

She can't, her body continuing to shiver as he holds her against his chest, her head lolling to the side.

"Lyra," Fitz says again, cradling a hand against the back of her head.

He'd held her just like this after she was born, one hand steady beneath her head, the other keeping her pressed close to his chest.

He'd whispered her name to her then, the one that had come to him upon seeing her for the first time. He and Ophelia had struggled with finding the perfect name, the one that fit her, this brand-new person who was theirs alone. Nothing had seemed right, their bickering mostly playful, but sometimes edged with annoyance and frustration. But he had known, without a doubt, that moment who she was. And Ophelia had agreed, still tired and drained and he had kissed her and held their daughter and whispered her name.

Now, Lyra feels impossibly light in his arms. It feels like nothing to hold her in his lap and Fitz wishes that he felt the weight of her somewhere else, other than in his chest, the crushing presence of dread and hopelessness making it impossible to breathe.

He'd always been struck by how small she was, this tiny person that he was suddenly responsible for. Ophelia had teased him several times over those first months, how he was always the one who found himself restless and waking at the first whimper from the crib, getting up in the middle of the night sometimes just to check on her. Even when Lyra started sleeping through the night, he would find himself stepping into her room, watching her through the darkness, just to be certain.

Watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.

Her chest isn't moving now, not anymore. Fitz knows he should be doing something, doing something more than just sitting here, holding her against him. Compressions, CPR, something to make her chest lift again. He would give anything to hear that terrible, raspy whistle from moments earlier, proof that she was still breathing.

But he can't. He can't bear to let her go, to put her down long enough to begin the compressions.

Everyone is staring now, caught in the drama of this moment. Fitz is only vaguely aware of what is going on around him, the activity, the people attempting to do what he apparently cannot: help his daughter. Fitz can't even look at them, can't shout out the words echoing in his mind: get help, get a doctor, save her.

He can only stare at his daughter, can only watch her face. Her eyes still open and staring, her lips parted and pale.

"She looks like you," Fitz had said many times when Lyra was still young and small enough that he could hold her in his arms, cradle her endlessly against his chest. In the middle of the night, whenever Lyra would stir and wake, desperate for any number of things, he would take her back into their bedroom, sitting up in bed with her against his chest and Ophelia sitting up, sleepy and half awake, beside him. His perfect family, his entire world, there in the quiet darkness of the bedroom. "She's going to look just like you."

Ophelia had smiled, groggy, her head tilting to rest against his shoulder. She would fall asleep like that, he knew, because she had many times before: back when they were younger and studying at the Academy; when they spent far too much time focusing on their tablets and the reports there; when she was pregnant, kept up by the twinges of pain in her body. "She has your eyes," she had said, the first time this possibility had occurred to Fitz.

Lyra's eyes, unblinking.

Her lips, unmoving.

Her chest, still.

And Fitz can barely hear himself, his voice saying her name endlessly, over and over, as though that will make a difference. As though something about the moment might change.

She doesn't respond, no matter how many times he says it. And Fitz can't understand how, moment before, she'd seen him and smiled. Ophelia's smile, bright and happy to see him.

Moments ago, she had seen him and smiled.

And now she's in his arms. And she was-

The thought doesn't finish, he won't let it.

Fitz holds his daughter there against his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart and wishing it was hers instead.

If only it were possible. Fitz knows he would make it happen without question.

Eventually, the rest of the world forces its way back into his focus, pulling his attention away from Lyra, demanding he pay attention, that he acknowledge that time is still passing. Even while he had been there, sitting on the sidewalk, useless and helpless, someone had acted. Uniformed men are there, their tones reassuring, promising to help.

Fitz wishes they could. That someone could. Even if it isn't him.

"I don't understand," he says quietly, looking at Lyra, motionless and light, impossibly so. "I don't understand what happened."

And he doesn't, truly. She had been so alive, full to the bursting. And now…now there was nothing.

That morning, Fitz had kissed her goodbye before school, kissing the side of her head as he passed by the table while he read emails on his tablet. Ophelia had sat at the table, keeping Lyra trapped between her knees as she worked a brush through her hair, a hair tie held between her pursed lips, brow furrowed in concentration.

Fitz can't help but notice that the hair tie has been lost somewhere through the course of the day, Lyra's hair tumbling freely behind her.

"I'm sorry, sir." The voice snaps Fitz back to the present and he looks up at the man, the one kneeling beside them, a hand on his daughter. "I'm afraid she's-"

Fitz twists away from him, keeping Lyra away from his touch. The man holds up his hands immediately, a sign of surrender. "Don't," Fitz snaps, shifting Lyra's weight in his arms. "Don't touch her."

None of the EMTs fight him on this. Which Fitz figures says enough.

* * *

 

It takes Fitz a long time to be ready to unlock the front door to the penthouse, to force himself to go inside. He stands in the hallway, staring at the door, the keys heavy in his hand, for what feels like hours. Weeks. Days.

It seems like an impossible task, this act of opening the door. Of stepping inside.

He knows Ophelia is on the other side. He can imagine her, curled on the couch, bare feet tucked beneath her as she works. He can imagine how she will uncurl at the sight of him, all long legs and fluid muscles. How she'll smile, sweep her hair over her shoulder, how she'll stand to greet him with a kiss.

How she'll ask him that simple question. The one he never wants to have to answer. "Where's Lyra?"

Fitz doesn't want her to hear the answer to the question from anyone but him. He needs to be the one to say the words to her, to tell her the impossible truth of their world now.

It's that thought that makes him finally unlock the door, the makes him push it open. That makes him step into the penthouse.

Ophelia isn't on the couch, like he'd seen in his mind. She's in the kitchen, worrying a thumbnail between her teeth, an absent gesture while she waits for the coffee to brew. She turns her head in his direction, a smile tugging up the corners of her lips. "You're home late," she observes.

It takes her a second to see the expression on his face and Fitz watches as her posture changes, as her muscles grow tight, as she stands up straighter. Her smile disappears, her hand falls down at her side. "Leopold, what's the matter?" She asks this in a tone that suggests that she doesn't want the answer. "Leopold. Where's Lyra?"

Fitz can only stare at her for a moment longer, as if he can somehow memorize the way she looks before he tells her that their daughter is dead.


	2. Lady Macbeth

There's an anger simmering low in her belly, growing heavier with each passing minute, each hour, each impossibly long day. The sadness that she feels has spread fissures through her chest, splitting through her heart and lungs and ribs, making it hard to breathe, to think, to function, unless she focuses her time on tending the hot anger growing inside her. And so that's what she does. She carries the sadness high in her chest, a balloon constantly expanding to force its way in; she carries the anger low, letting it streak through her veins and up her spine toward the back corners of her mind.

Leopold isn't angry, not yet. She can only watch him, weighed down by the sadness he feels, the grief that has turned him into this completely different person. He hasn't looked at her, not truly, not since he walked into the door of their home and had told her that their daughter was dead.

Their daughter. _Her_ daughter. Ophelia can still taste the feeling of the words on her tongue, the thick metallic feeling of knowing that nothing in her world was ever going to be the same again. That moment, the heartbeats of time following his words and her understanding of them, had been the last she'd let herself feel anguished instead of angry. She can still remember the feeling of her knees hitting the floor, the way she'd struck out against him, how she'd sounded more animal than human, cursing him for telling her this thing, this horrible thing. For making it true. It had been the last time Leopold had held her, truly, holding her even as she'd hit him with clawed hands and called him a liar.

Neither of them have slept much in the past three days but Leopold has spent most of his time in his office, not sleeping on the couch there against the wall. Just like she's spent most of her time in their bed, not sleeping and staring at the ceiling.

Only hours ago, one of her PAs, the one who'd been deemed unlucky enough to have to come talk to her, had brought a dress and shoes for tomorrow, stammering as she talked about the impending service and how sorry everyone was. The PA, a girl really, still fresh-faced from the Academy, had tried to make her coffee and tea, had even started making her toast as she talked and it had been sweet, almost, though Ophelia has little interest in sweet right now. "Everyone is so sorry," the girl had said, "so sorry."

Ophelia had looked at her. "Even the person who killed my daughter?"

The girl had left shortly after that, leaving the black dress and making shoes behind.

Ophelia has seen the news reports, hasn't been able to keep herself from watching. Sunil Bakshi has been milking the tragedy for all it's worth, as though the only thing that's made him happier than trying to get on the good side of her family is talking about this horrible thing that's happened to them. Several different people have reportedly taken credit for what's happened, for the death of a little girl, _her_ little girl, eight-years-old and leaving school to meet her father waiting for her on the sidewalk. Grant has told her that they've got the person responsible, her teacher, the one who poisoned her shortly before saying goodbye to the class for the day; he's told them both that the man is in custody and that the rumors aren't likely to stop any time soon.

The television is droning on now, even though Ophelia isn't paying attention to it, staring up at the ceiling instead and watching the light flicker into strange patterns. The windows are open and the city is dark outside and she envies the people who are sleeping and who don't have to wake up in the morning to attend their daughter's funeral. Not like she does.

Earlier, right after it had happened and it became clear that this reality wasn't changing, the doctor had offered her something: pills, a shot, a way to numb the way that she was feeling. Ophelia had settled on the feeling of anger calcifying in her stomach, unwilling to do anything that might numb that feeling too. Anger for the person who had killed her daughter and the people who had put him up to it, had used them as their puppet. The people she knows that she'll find and tear to pieces with her curled fingers and her teeth and-

The sound of the bedroom door easing open works as a momentary salve on the hot anger running through her thoughts and Ophelia tenses suddenly, sitting up and looking toward the door. Leopold, standing there like he can't remember what he's supposed to be doing. She reaches over, tapping the tablet on the bedside table and shutting off the television, plunging them both into darkness. But Ophelia keeps her eyes there, on the square of space where she'd last seen him standing.

"Leopold," Ophelia says quietly, her voice dry and fragile. "Please."

It seems like he's just been waiting for her to say such a thing because Ophelia can hear him moving quickly, crossing their bedroom by memory, getting into bed beside her. They stay like that for several moments, both of them sitting upright in the darkness, a chasm of space between them, as though waiting for someone else to come in and fill it. A child with a nightmare; a daughter too excited to sleep any longer. But eventually Ophelia lays down again, putting her back to Leopold, her eyes staring at the wall opposite her.

Leopold moves to follow suit, only he curls his body around hers, his arm sliding tight around her waist, pulling her to fit into the curve of him. Ophelia tries to swallow, tries to breathe, but can hardly remember how. He kisses the back of her neck through her hair, pressing his face there against the angle of her shoulder. She closes her eyes and ignores the prick of tears in her eyes in favor of the anger in her stomach.

"Ophelia," Leopold whispers against her skin, his voice thick and somehow pleading. "Ophelia, Ophelia. I'm sorry." He runs his hand along her arm, and she knows the sound of him trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. "This is my fault."

A part of her is tempted to say _yes_ , to assure him that he's right. To blame him for what happened, to blame him for being unable to save their daughter there on the sidewalk, to blame his job, his notoriety.

A part of her wants to assure him that it's _her_ fault, that their daughter is dead because someone wanted to hurt her, wanted to ruin her, wanted what she had: the power, the position. They saw her seat on the Council and decided it was worth the life of a little girl.

But Ophelia only shakes her head, reaching back to take his hand, to pull it around her chest, to cocoon herself in his touch. He kisses her shoulder, the back of her neck, and she imagines if she were to turn her head that she would be able to taste the salt on his cheeks.

Selfishly, there's been a part of her that has missed him in all of this, who has been waiting for three days for him to do exactly this. For Leopold to hold onto her and promise her it was all going to be okay, even if they both knew it was a lie.

He doesn't promise her that, but he does hold onto her, tight enough that Ophelia can blame that for the tightness in her chest that makes it hard to breathe. And she figures that's all she can possibly hope for.

* * *

 

There are too many people in her house. Ophelia ignores them, focusing her attention on the anger growing larger in her stomach; the sound of the hushed voices, the thinly veiled attempts to hide gossip, only needle it into being. She sits on the couch, staring at the wall, pretending not to notice any of it.

"Here." The voice belongs to Alistair, Ophelia doesn't need to stop her staring to confirm this. He'd stood beside her and Leopold an hour earlier, his hands folded across his chest, his expression somber, looking slightly annoyed by the whole thing. Alistair holds a glass of whiskey in her field of vision. "This will help."

Ophelia looks over at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "That will help me feel better about the fact that my daughter is dead," she says flatly and Alistair looks slightly surprised by her words. He'd expected her to take it, to be grateful, to make him feel good about all of this. Instead she just glares at him. "Don't talk to me."

Alistair seems happy to comply, stepping away from her and taking both glasses of whiskey away with him. Before Ophelia can turn her head back toward the wall, she catches sight of Stephanie Malik-Daniels standing several feet away, watching her while holding court with several of the other wives of Hydra Council members. When Stephanie meets her gaze, she looks momentarily horrified, but it's guilt that seems to be the dominant feature on her face.

And the certainty of what's happened settles suddenly over Ophelia, a sudden flash of white hot anger slicing through her.

Ophelia gets to her feet, moving robotically toward Stephanie, whose guilty expression only seems to grow. Ophelia is uncertain of what she's going to do when she reaches her but she knows that it will momentarily cool the anger burning brightly inside her.

A hand settles on her elbow, stopping her short and Ophelia looks over, her eyes flashing dangerously as she sees Leopold standing there. "Take your hand off me." She's certain her voice is quiet enough that he's the only one who hears her, the words burning like embers in her throat.

Leopold only shakes his head and he just looks sad, downtrodden, beaten. His own righteous anger is buried beneath the surface and it briefly makes her irrationally upset with him. "Don't," Leopold says just as quietly. "Don't."

"You don't understand," Ophelia says, gritting her teeth. "She-"

Leopold nods. "I know." His eyes meet hers. "Not now."

Ophelia jerks her hand free from his grip and when Leopold reaches for her, she shoves him roughly away from her. She doesn't move toward Stephanie, manages to resist the impulse, instead heading toward the front door. Everyone steps out of her way immediately and it isn't until Ophelia is outside, glaring against the brightness of the sun, that she realizes she's forgotten her shoes. It hardly matters.

When she was a little girl, her mother died and she can barely picture the woman's face now, though she still remembers coming to the cemetery with her father, dressed in a little girl's version of the dress she's wearing now. Her father had seemed to believe that the ground was for boring, unimportant people with little to offer the world. And she had stood there, beside her father, staring at the big, smooth white marble building and had known with certainty that one day she would die and would be put there in the walls along with the people who had come before her.

When her father died, she had stood beside Leopold in front of the same building, his hand holding hers tightly as she wiped prettily at the crocodile tears on her cheeks. They had killed her father and stood by as he became another Pierce there in the vault, interred prematurely so she could take his place.

Ophelia thinks now, as she stands in front of the big, smooth white marble building that she's finally paying for that moment, when she had put poison in her father's wine glass and then raised her own in a toast, Leopold nervous and excited beside her. This, it seems, is her penance, come years later and for the wrong person.

 _Come, you spirits, that tend on mortal thoughts_ , Ophelia thinks as she pushes open the door to the vault and steps inside for the second time that day, _fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty._

The line seems emptier to her now than it had in her required Academy classes, when she had imagined herself a Shakespearean heroine. Not the one she was named after, weak and insignificant and driven mad by love, but the villainess, strong enough to be in charge of her own destiny.

The vault feels too full suddenly, thanks to the newest addition.

Ophelia is still kneeling there, knees numb on the stone floor, eyes burning a hole into the wall across from her, when she hears footsteps on the polished floor behind her. She isn't sure how much time has gone by since she left the penthouse: an hour, two, ten, days? But strangely she feels slightly more relaxed to know that Leopold has come for her.

Just like she'd known he would.

Leopold sits there beside her and she looks at him rather than the wall. He's clean shaven for the first time in days, still dressed, like she is, in what they'd worn here earlier today. Ophelia reaches out and rests her hand against his cheek, letting her fingers linger against his skin. "Leopold."

He covers her hand with his own, keeping it pressed against his skin. "I know," Leopold says softly and he takes her hand, pressing his lips to her palm. "I'll take care of it."

It's a promise but it doesn't make Ophelia feel any better. It doesn't settle the anger burning in her stomach. "She has a daughter," she says quietly, watching his eyes. Beneath the sadness there, the heavy grief she hasn't let herself feel, she can see the faintest spark of anger. As though he's borrowing it from her.

Leopold's jaw tightens slightly. "How many more dead children do there need to be?"

Ophelia thinks of Stephanie's daughter, the little girl a year younger than Lyra, with the beautiful white blonde hair and the pretty pink dresses. "What child matters anymore?"

Leopold doesn't say anything but she can see it in his eyes, can read his expressions better than she understands her own. This is the way he looked at her the moment she suggested that they take care of her father, the way he looked at her when she told him that she needed him more than anything else in this wretched world. The look in his eyes said he would do anything for her, _with_ her, and Ophelia is relieved to know at least those truths haven't changed: she needs him, he will be with her, this world is wretched.

Ophelia reaches for him, pulling him close and kissing him, hard and desperate, with teeth and tongue. For a second, he hesitates. For a second, she thinks that he's going to pull away from her. For a second, she thinks that she might have lost him.

But then he's kissing her, his hands on her, tugging her close, desperate. Ophelia gasps into his mouth when Leopold digs his fingers into her shoulders, hard enough to hurt, enough to make her suddenly feel electric and connected to him. Ophelia suddenly feels like none of this will be enough, that nothing ever will. That she'll never be close enough to him, that she'll never feel enough, that she'll never feel anything but the anger inside her, all hunger and teeth.

Leopold slips his hand through her hair, his movements quick and frenzied, pulling on her hair and causing pinpricks to spread through her skull as he tips her head back so he can press his lips to her neck. Ophelia closes her eyes, her breath coming quicker, her hands already moving to push his jacket from his shoulders. She wants to feel him, wants the weight of his body on hers, the feeling of his skin against her own.

He kisses down her neck, pressing his lips to her collarbone and Ophelia sighs, closing her eyes. "Leopold," she whispers, "Please. I need you."

He seems to remember himself slightly, pulling back to look at her. His face is flushed, his breathing heavy and his eyes are still so impossibly sad that Ophelia almost can't look at him. "Here?" Leopold questions, even as he's already reaching for her again. "Now?"

Ophelia can only nod, taking his hand and pressing it to her heart, wishing he could feel the way that each shattered piece aches and beats for him and what was taken from them. Instead, she figures she'll have to settle on him feeling the rapid beating, the quickening of her breath. "I need you," she says again. Like she did the night they decided to kill her father. Like she did the night he asked her to marry him and the night she actually did. Like she did the night she gave birth to their daughter, the morning after, the days and weeks that followed. Like she's done so many times before and for so many different reasons.

When Leopold kisses her again, it stops her from thinking and she's grateful to him. Leopold seems desperate to touch her everywhere at once with his hands and his lips and Ophelia feels the same, desperate to get her hands on him, to be close to him. Their movements are far from smooth and coordinated, far from the easy rhythm and understanding of one another that they've developed after years together. There's only the frantic need driving them forward.

Leopold pushes her backward and Ophelia shivers against the coolness of the stone against her skin but she doesn't spare it a second thought, reaching for him and pulling him down on top of her. Ophelia's fingers are shaking as she reaches up to help Leopold undo the buttons on his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders. His skin is hot beneath her hands and her lips and he groans in her hair as she kisses him, holding tightly to him so their bodies are flush together.

His hands push up her dress, fumbling and uncertain, like it's their first time all over again. Leopold's fingers brush against her and Ophelia whimpers, the sound involuntary and more desperate than she'd imagined it would be. And god she's already wet for him, here on the floor of this place, both of them in black.

Leopold's fingers inside her are rough and clumsy and Ophelia knows that she'll never feel anything aside from the brief flashes of pleasure, not like this, not now, but it still feels good to have him close to her, connected to her. She lifts her hips to match the curl of his fingers, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. Leopold is kissing her neck and chest, his kisses as rough as his fingers and she can feel her body growing hot, her breathing coming easier.

When he moves away from her, his fingers sliding free, Ophelia groans, opening her eyes, searching for him. "Leopold, I need-"

"I know," he tells her and Ophelia thinks that he does, that it wouldn't matter how she would finish that sentence.

And he proves that he does know exactly what she needs when seconds later he's pushing inside her again and Ophelia groans in tandem with him, their foreheads pressing together as he moves his hips, filling her. Her eyes close again and his lips find hers and Ophelia can feel a different sort of heat pooling there in her stomach now, a momentary reprieve from the anger she's felt for days.

Ophelia matches her movements to his, rocking her hips, taking him deeper, whispering his name as he thrusts inside her. Leopold is whispering against her neck, words that she can't make out, promises that she can't hear. But she can feel his lips, feel the movement of the words, and she believes anything he might be saying to her. She scrabbles for purchase on his back, her nails scratching across skin, trying to pull them even closer together.

"Harder, yes," Ophelia whispers, or at least she thinks that she says the words out loud, muttering them in between the moans and whimpers and sighs, "Leopold, please, like that, more."

His movements are rough, fast, desperate. Ophelia can feel the stone floor against her bare thighs and back, can feel the dress bunched up beneath her, can feel Leopold inside her, his teeth and lips on her shoulder, can feel the ache low in her stomach. She wants to pretend that these are the only things that she can feel.

Ophelia feels something give inside of her suddenly and she's seeing stars, Leopold's name on her hips as she arches her back off the ground, curling her toes and knocking her head back against the floor. She can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but focus on how she feels, the sparks shooting through her body and the sound of Leopold's voice in her ear. _I love you_ , he's saying to her, over and over, _I love you. We're going to be okay_.

Ophelia isn't sure if she believes him but she closes her eyes and nods anyway, swallowing and trying to remember how to breathe again. There's a tightness still in her chest but it's easier in this moment to pretend like she doesn't know why it's there.

Leopold is still thrusting inside of her and the feeling is sharp, dulled pleasure edged with a bit of pain and all she can do is put her arms around him, slipping her fingers through his hair, kissing the curve of his throat, as his cums, his movements finally stilling.

They lay there together, Ophelia listening to the sound of her own breathing returning to normal, absently running her fingers through his hair, letting her nails brush against his scalp. Leopold is holding her against him, his breath hot against her cheek and suddenly Ophelia feels the prick of tears, the certainty that she can't push them away.

Ophelia gasps, pressing her hand to her face, shuddering beneath him. Leopold moves slightly, sitting back and she lets out a sob, closing her eyes tightly. It does little to help, to make things better. When Leopold reaches for her, pulling her upright as well and against his chest, she doesn't fight him. She just leans into him, limp, barely feeling it when he puts his arms around her, his hand trailing up and down her back, his cheek pressed against the crown of her head.

"I need you, Ophelia," Leopold says softly and she nods not because of his words but because she knows how he feels. "I love you."

She nods again and he gently wipes her cheeks, kissing her softly. Ophelia rests her head against his chest, closing her eyes once more, listening to the sound of his heart beating against her ear. It's nice, this stolen moment, this feeling that she's safe and protected and untouchable here in his arms. It's a lie but a nice one to entertain for the time being.


	3. Andronicus

It wasn't until she was six years old that Ophelia learned she had a father. In more concrete terms; in a way that extended past biology. She'd known the name Alexander Pierce from the history books and news reports she watched a school and at home; she'd seen the man's face and never thought to look for traces of herself in his features. Until the day he'd come to her house, called her his daughter, told her he was taking her home. He'd carried her, crying and kicking, to a car waiting in the driveway, one that would take her away from her mother and when he'd put her in the backseat, he'd taken her face between his fingers and told her that emotions only made her weak, that the sight of her tears disgusted him. That if she were truly his daughter, the first thing she would learn would be how to straighten her spine, lift her chin and ensure that no one ever saw her cry again. That the only way to go through life was with steel in your veins and with the certainty that everyone you met was an enemy.

And when you found proof that someone was your enemy, you had no choice but to act on it.

The advice, Ophelia reasons, had been good enough. A mantra to live her life by, to a certain extent. One that certainly helps her now, as she walks through the bowels of the Triskelion, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor echoing against the walls along with the cries and protests of the people they have in the cells that she passes. Normally, she has no cause to come down here.

But this hardly a normal situation.

Ophelia comes to the cell at the end of the hall, the only one currently with a guard positioned outside. He steps away quickly and Ophelia remembers her father's words: steel in her veins, her spine straight, her chin lifted. An enemy to face.

The door opens and Ophelia steps into the room, her eyes immediately settling on the sole occupant. A woman she's known most of her life, one she's never considered as a friend. A necessary thing to be endured and nothing more.

How wrong she'd been. Ophelia realizes this now. This is the woman who took her child from her, who-

Ophelia has to stop herself from crossing the space between them, from putting her hands around Stephanie's neck and squeezing. It would be too good a punishment.

Instead, she walks up slowly, watching Stephanie's eyes follow her. Stephanie has been in the room for nearly two days and Ophelia is certain this is the first time she's seen another person. She and Leopold had left strict instructions that no one was to go into the room for any reason, even to offer food or water. Stephanie's face is sweaty and tear streaked, her eyes bleary and her expression frightened.

Good.

Ophelia kneels in front of her, ignoring the press of the dirty floor on her knees. Things like that hardly matter to her now. So little does.

"I'm sorry," Stephanie croaks out instantly and Ophelia isn't sure if her voice is hoarse from begging and pleading or from disuse. "I'm so, so sorry, Ophelia. I never thought-"

Ophelia tilts her head, studying her. "You never thought," she repeats. "You never thought poisoning my daughter would kill her? Or you never thought I would find out it was you?"

Stephanie sniffs, her chin wobbling. "I'm sorry," she says again and tears drop onto her cheeks. "It was-"

Ophelia lashes out before she can stop herself, slapping Stephanie across the face. Stephanie lets out a little gasp of surprise, exhaling a sob. "Stop," she says shortly. "You don't get to cry about my daughter."

"I…" Stephanie stops herself before she can apologize again and when she looks back at Ophelia, her cheek is already blooming with red. "Please, I'll do anything," she says quietly. "I'll go anywhere. You'll never see me again, I promise. Let me take my children and-"

This time, Stephanie stops herself, her eyes growing wide. Ophelia can feel her body start to tighten, the bones and muscle and blood inside her starting to boil. "Your children," Ophelia says quietly. "Your daughter. How nice for you."

Stephanie starts to cry again. "Ophelia, please, please." She leans forward slightly, as far as she can given the restraints that keep her bound close to the wall. Ophelia flinches away, out of her reach. "Please. You have to understand. This wasn't because of him. This wasn't something he…this wasn't about politics…I didn't…"

Ophelia isn't even sure that she's breathing, though she figures she must be if she's still here, in this moment. Unless she's already died and this moment is only one part of the hell that she knows she deserves.

"What?" Ophelia asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "That _thing_ didn't ask you to-"

Stephanie shakes her head. "No. No!" She looks up, entreating, obviously not seeing the expression on Ophelia's face. Or seeing it and being too stupid to understand it. "No, it was…it was personal, it was about us. It's always been about us. And I never meant…I didn't think…I shouldn't…"

Ophelia clenches her jaw so tight she feels like the bone might splinter beneath the weight. "You did this," she says, her voice a growl, "because of a vendetta you had with me?"

Stephanie wisely grows silent, finally seeming to realize that her babbling has only made things worse, rather than better.

"You murdered my daughter because I hurt your feelings?" Ophelia is certain that she's not breathing, certain that the tightness in her chest and the spots in front of her eyes are because she's about to suffocate.

She raises her hand again, fingers curled into claws and Stephanie flinches, turning her head away. But Ophelia stops herself before she can strike her, unable to make contact with the woman bound in front of her.

Instead, Ophelia gets to her feet, smoothing down the front of her black dress, swallowing down the impulse to scream, to cry, to throw up, to do all of those things. Spine straight, chin lifted, steel.

Ophelia turns and starts back toward the door, ignoring the way that Stephanie calls after her, begging and desperate. And afraid.

Good. At least she's smart enough to realize that's exactly how she should feel right now.

* * *

 

Leopold finds her in the living room of the penthouse, surrounded by the shattered remains of so many of the expensive, useless things they own. Her hands are bleeding and Ophelia feels like her throat is raw from the screams she's been heaving at the uncaring walls. There's plenty still standing in this house, plenty she wants to tear to pieces with her bare hands, unwilling to give up dismantling their life until it looks as torn and broken as she feels inside.

Leopold kneels on the floor beside her, taking her hands in his, unbothered, as always, by the blood. "Ophelia," he says softly and it makes her want to scream all over again, "stop. Just-"

Ophelia pulls her hands away, curling them gently around the nape of his neck, crimson spotting the starched collar of his shirt. "She killed our daughter." She's said these words before and to him but this time they come out differently: entreating rather than disbelieving or angry. "She killed our daughter."

"You went to see her?" Leopold asks, displeased, his jaw clenching. "Ophelia, you weren't-"

"I'll do whatever I damn well please," Ophelia snaps, her fingers tightening around the back of his jacket. "I'll kill her." A promise. "I'll kill all of them." Another.

Leopold nods, reaching up to touch her, to loosen her grip on him. "I know," he says quietly. "I'm taking care of it. I'm going to-"

Ophelia shakes her head. " _I'm_ going to take care of it." The words come out like a snarl and when he tries to protest, she just pushes him away, getting to her feet.

"I understand-" Leopold starts as he gets to his feet.

"You don't!" Ophelia whirls back to face him and she loves him just enough when he does flinch away from her. "You don't understand! You can't. But she can. And she will."

Another promise.

One Leopold doesn't argue with.

* * *

 

The feeling of a small hand in hers again is even to nearly cleave Ophelia's heart in half and she does her best to ignore it. She doesn't look at the figure beside her, doesn't listen to her quiet and fearful chatter. She just leads the way, pulling the girl along beside her, impatient and insisting.

This little girl knows her, knew her daughter. They were, for lack of a better term, friends.

And now this girl is alive where her daughter is not. And Ophelia can't think of anything more unfair than that.

The guard unlocks the door to the last cell on the hall, his eyes lingering on the little girl in the pink dress as he does so. He doesn't say anything and Ophelia decides not to have him killed.

"Mommy!" Augusta cries, pulling her hand free from Ophelia's as soon as she sees Stephanie there in the room.

Ophelia feels her own heart shudder at the word. A word that doesn't belong to her anymore.

Stephanie looks shocked to see her daughter there, seeming to instantly forget herself and her surroundings, trying to reach out to the girl. Her hands are still tied behind her, the small joy of holding her child lost to her.

"I don't understand," Stephanie says quietly, pressing her lips to Augusta's head as the girl throws her arms around her, crying and holding onto her mother. "Ophelia, what is this? Why?"

Ophelia studies them, pursing her lips. A touching scene, truly: mother and daughter reunited.

Something that will never happen to her.

"I thought you might want to see you daughter," Ophelia tells her, her voice even and clipped. Hard like steel. Her father would approve. "I know she's been missing her mother."

Augusta is clinging to Stephanie's neck, alternating between crying all over her and letting out little bursts of words: I miss you, Mommy I love you, Mommy come home, Mommy, Mommy.

"I know, baby, I know," Stephanie says quietly against the side of her head, kissing her, closing her eyes. "Mommy misses you too. I'm sorry." She looks back at Ophelia and the look on her face -broken, defeated and lost- only makes Ophelia feel better. "Please." She tugs on her restraints. "Just…just for a minute."

Ophelia is certain her smile looks more like a threat. She steps forward, grabbing Augusta and pulling her back, tugging her arms away from Stephanie's neck. Augusta whimpers in protest but doesn't struggle when Ophelia kneels down beside her, collecting the girl in her arms.

They are, after all, friends.

"Augusta," Ophelia coos, smoothing the girl's damp hair away from her face. "Sweet girl." She kisses Augusta's forehead, meeting Stephanie's gaze. Stephanie's cheeks are damp with tears, her longing almost palpable. Along with her fear.

"You miss Lyra, don't you?" Ophelia says softly, trailing her fingers through the girl's hair. "She was your friend, wasn't she?"

Augusta looks at Ophelia, uncertain. Her expression is so much like Stephanie's: teary and weak. "Yes," she says softly, mostly because she seems to feel it's been expected of her. "She was my friend."

Ophelia turns back to face Stephanie and Augusta follows suit. "Tell her," Ophelia says. "Tell your daughter what you did." Her voice is cold and hard and she can feel Augusta shift, uncertain, at the change in her tone. "Tell her that you killed _my_ daughter."

Stephanie lets out a shuddery breath, closing her eyes. "Ophelia, I-"

"Tell her." Ophelia hisses, tightening her grip on Augusta. When Augusta whimpers, trying to twist away, Stephanie's head snaps up, watching closely. "Say it. Say what you did."

"Mommy?" Augusta questions, uncertainly. "I want to go home."

Stephanie nods. "I know, baby, I'm sorry," she says. "This is my fault. I'm sorry. I did something very terrible and…" She looks at Ophelia. "She has nothing to do with this."

Ophelia nods, reaching into her pocket. Her fingers close around the syringe there and instantly she feels a wave of relief pass through her. Salvation. "I know," she assures Stephanie. "I know how you feel."

The needle is small and slim and when it pierces the soft skin between Augusta's neck and shoulder, the girl barely seems to register it, wincing but not fighting when Ophelia holds her in place against her chest.

Stephanie's eyes widen, her mouth opening soundlessly, as Ophelia depresses the plunger. "And now," Ophelia says quietly, "you're going to know how I feel."

A promise.

When the syringe is empty, Ophelia loosens her grip on Augusta, lightly pressing her lips to the top of her head. "There we go," she says quietly. "Go give your mom a hug."

Augusta seems happy to comply, hurrying back to Stephanie. She stumbles slightly, teetering forward as she goes to cuddle against her mother. Ophelia is impressed; apparently the poison works faster than the technicians upstairs had told her.

"Ophelia," Stephanie whispers, gaping like a fish as she looks at her daughter. "Please. Don't do this…don't hurt her…please. I'll do anything. I'll…please…don't hurt her."

"It's too late," Ophelia assures her with a smile as she gets to her feet, tossing the syringe at Stephanie. "You know how effective that poison can be. Guaranteed results."

Augusta wobbles slightly, sinking to the floor. "Mama-"

Stephanie cries out, pulling at her restraints and getting nowhere. "No! Ophelia! Goddamn you! Let me out!" Her command sounds more like a plea, her voice cracking as she yells the words, alternating them with calling out her daughter's name. "Let me go! Let me hold her! Augusta! My baby!"

 _My baby._ Ophelia remembers those words, how she'd yelled them when Leopold had told her, how she'd later whispered them when she'd laid there on the floor in his arms, too exhausted to fight him anymore.

Ophelia doesn't turn around as she walks toward the door, doesn't bother to see the results of what she's done.

She already knows how well the poison works.


	4. Tamora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sad sin, as per request. AKA the "sex in our dead daughter's room" sin.

“What are you doing?”

Ophelia tenses at the sound of his voice, the way that each word seems to slide through her body and settle, cold, in her stomach. The way that his words immediately make her feel guilty, even though she’s doing nothing wrong.

She’s only doing what’s necessary. Facing the inevitable. There’s a part of her that knows they could have someone else take care of this for them, could have her PA take care of it but the thought of having strange people in her home, strange people touching her daughter’s things…It’s worth it to be standing here now, facing down this task alone.

Alone, only because she hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask Leopold to help her. Hadn’t been able to mention it to him. Unable to see the look in his eyes, to hear his voice.

The very tone that she hears now.

Ophelia sets aside the box she’d been holding -empty because all she’s been able to do so far is hold it- and turns back to face him. Leopold is standing in the doorway, the closest he’s come to the room in weeks.

Three, to be exact. Twenty-one days since their daughter died, eighteen since they buried her. Endless minutes and hours they’ve had to struggle to adjust to this empty house, this quiet new reality. Once, Ophelia had been convinced that the only thing she needed in her life was Leopold. She had been so certain that all she ever needed was the two of them and that with him beside her she would never long for anything more.

Until she had held their daughter for the first time and realized that there was someone else she needed in her world after all.

Leopold is staring at her, not necessarily angry. Not necessarily sad. Somewhere in between both. “What are you doing?” He says again, as though to impress upon her the importance of getting an answer.

“I’m packing up her things,” Ophelia says and wills her voice to sound steady and even. Full of conviction.

Leopold’s jaw tightens. “Why?”

Ophelia suddenly feels a flash of anger race through her body. The anger is still there, always with her, a constant demon on her shoulder and in her stomach. It’s been better since she fulfilled the promise she made to her daughter, since she killed those who had taken Lyra away from her. But it hasn’t disappeared, not completely.

She’s worried it never will.

“Because we can’t just keep these things here.” Ophelia is impressed at the sound of her voice, the evenness, even as she wants to scream at him. “We can’t just…one tomb is enough,” she says, grabbing the closest thing she can and throwing it into the box. Some of Lyra’s toys, stuffed animals worn and ratty from play.

Leopold doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move. But now he, at least, looks more angry than anything else. Ophelia is almost relieved. She grabs Lyra’s tiger off the bed, ignoring the way that her heart shatters in her chest. “Are you going to help me?”

“No,” Leopold says even as he’s stepping into the room. “We don’t have to do this. Don’t touch her things.”

Ophelia feels herself bristle at his words, straightening her shoulders as she looks at him. “I am her mother,” she says tightly, “not some stranger. Would you rather have some stranger in here?”

She throws the tiger into the box and turns back to the bed, suddenly grabbing the sheets and yanking them off the mattress in a smooth, fluid motion powered by anger. The sheets smell stale and dusty and like Lyra’s shampoo and she stuffs them into the box. Her pillow follows and the book they’d been reading with her each night before bed.

Ophelia turns to get another box and Leopold walks past her, grabbing the one she’d just worked so hard to fill. She watches, open-mouthed, as he takes the box and upends it, scattering Lyra’s things back onto the floor. “Leopold!”

“Don’t!” He snaps at her, grabbing up the tiger and throwing it into the hallway. “Don’t just pack up her stuff like it’s garbage! Like you want to just throw her away!”

Ophelia’s hand lashes out before she can stop it, slapping him across the face. Leopold’s head jerks slightly to the side but the only sound that follows the slap is Ophelia’s audible intake of breath. The sound of surprise that she makes at herself, at the sudden stinging in her palm, at the reddening in his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Ophelia says, her tone wooden and robotic. She steps back from him, bumping against the bedframe and sliding down to the floor. Her eyes sting with tears as she looks at the pile of things on the floor, all they have left of their daughter.

Leopold moves toward her instead of toward the door, which is what she expected. He settles there in front of her and Ophelia forces herself to look at him through blurry eyes. “I can’t do this without you,” she says quietly. “Please.”

Leopold looks at her and she can see him swallow, see the clinch of his jaw. “I can’t,” he tells her.

Ophelia feels a tear drop onto her cheek and brushes it away. “It hurts too much,” she says, hearing the hitch in her voice, “it hurts too much to have this room here. Like she’s going to come back for everything.”

When Leopold reaches for her, Ophelia presses her face against his chest, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. His arms are heavy and solid around her, real, an anchor. She tightens her fingers around a fistful of his shirt, trying to pull him closer to her. They don’t talk as much as they used to; it’s still too difficult for either of them to find the words that they need. But they can still touch each other, still be close. They can still do this.

Ophelia lifts her head and Leopold looks at her, reaching up to brush the hair away from her face. Her cheeks are damp and she can feel her lashes wet with tears and she can see in him the same tumultuous feelings coursing through her body. The same heartbreak, the same steady spread of the tear ripping through her, the same need.

Not desire, not necessarily. But something stronger. Need.

Leopold kisses her and his lips are soft against hers, uncertain and gentle. She opens her mouth beneath his touch, deepening the kiss, answering his unspoken question. She needs this. She needs him. She needs him to make her forget that two will never be enough for her again.

Ophelia moves one of his hands away from her face, putting it against her hip, the waistband of her pants, a not-so-subtle hint at where she needs him to touch her. His kisses make her feel dizzy, make her broken heart flutter ever so slightly, but it’s not enough. She needs more. She needs to feel him.

Leopold seems to get her meaning, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat as he slips his fingers beneath the band of her pants -sweats, the Council would be horrified, the people shocked!- and tugging them  lower down. Ophelia’s shoulders and spine ache from where he has her pressed against the wooden frame of Lyra’s bed and she pushes back on him slightly, a subtle insistence. He moves with her, the way he always does, seeming to know exactly what she needs without her having to say anything at all. Ophelia pushes him back against the floor, settling her hips against his. He’s already hard against her and she feels her heart lurch toward him, feels absurdly grateful for the fact that he’s beneath her, that he’s touching her, that his lips are against her shoulder. That he’s reminding her that she can still feel something after all.

Ophelia leans forward against him, pressing her lips to the curve of his jaw, listening to his quiet intake of breath as she kisses him. She pulls down the zipper on his pants even as his hand is back against her hip, tugging impatiently at the fabric of her sweats. They fumble together to shed their pants and Ophelia closes her eyes, sighing as she takes him inside, lowering herself onto him. Leopold groans, a hand tightening around her hair, causing a sudden flash of pain that immediately makes her feel better.

Ophelia rocks her hips, impatient and suddenly desperate. She kisses Leopold’s jaw again, letting her lips linger. “I love you,” she says against his skin.

She can’t remember the last time she said those words.

The realization makes her move her hips again, taking him deeper, increasing their rhythm.

“Please,” Ophelia tells him as she meets his gaze, “don’t be gentle.”

Leopold groans, tugging on her hair again, seemingly involuntarily. He thrusts hard and deep inside her and Ophelia groans, shuddering as he pulls her head back slightly and kisses the arch of her throat. His movements are messy but exactly what she’d asked for: hard and fast, far from comforting and gentle. She doesn’t want to be coddled, has no interest in being protected. There’s no point to that anymore.

Ophelia cries out as he thrusts inside her, almost too hard to truly be comfortable, but she doesn’t dare protest. Not when this is what she wants. She wants this strange mixture of pleasure and pain, wants the bite of his fingers against her hip, wants the heat spreading through her body and into her mind, dulling everything but the feeling of him inside her.

“Yes,” Ophelia can hear herself, can hear that word slipping past her lips over and over again, in time with every movement of him inside her. “Yes. God, yes, right there.” She pushes herself up, bracing herself with her hands flat on his chest, so that it’s easier for her to move with him, easier to move her hips and match his rhythm.

Leopold is quiet aside from the occasional grunt or moan that slips past his lips, his eyes closed, his hands heavy on her. Holding her close, focusing on the way they move together.

“Harder,” Ophelia tells him, even as her body already aches, “harder.” It’s not enough. She needs more of him, always more of him.

“Ophelia,” Leopold groans her name and Ophelia feels a flash of warmth spread through her body, desperate longing for this man. It’s easy to pretend like this, with her name on his lips, with him inside her, when she can focus on how good he feels, when she can focus on the bite of pain. “God, Ophelia, I need you.”

_I need you_. Not _I love you_. But somehow, she takes them to mean the same thing. Somehow, she finds his need even more important to her.

“Yes,” Ophelia whispers, that single word again, so readily available at the tip of her tongue. She rocks her hips as he thrusts inside her and she just says it over and over again: yes.

It’s her name on his lips when he cums with one final thrust, a movement that causes her to cry out, to tip her head back, to move her hips harder, faster, desperate to find her own release. When Leopold reaches forward to touch her, brushing his fingers against her clit, she lets go quickly, gasping out a cry of relief as she leans forward against him. Leopold wraps his arms around her quickly, as though he thinks she might try to move away from him, as though he’s worried about letting her go.

Ophelia lets out a shuddery breath, closing her eyes again as she presses her forehead against his chest. She can feel his heart beating, can hear the short gasps that past her lips as she struggles to catch her breath. Leopold’s hand is pressed to the small of her back, pushing her shirt up slightly to trace nonsensical patterns against her bare skin. He doesn’t say the words out loud but she can feel them there in his touch, against her skin: _I love you_.

When Ophelia opens her eyes again, her gaze immediately settles on the pile of Lyra’s things that Leopold had made earlier in the center of the room. The monumental effort she had expended to pack one box, undone by him in a second.

Leopold seems to sense the focus of her attention, his hand reaching up to slip through her hair, resting against the curve of her head. Ophelia closes her eyes against the sight, focusing on the sensation of his touch again.

“Tomorrow,” Leopold says suddenly against the crown of her head. She can feel his breath against her scalp. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”

Ophelia lifts her head to look at him. “Together?” It’s somehow both a command and a plea.

Leopold nods, his fingers still sliding through her hair. “Together.”

Once, that had been enough for her: the two of them, together.

Ophelia hopes it can be enough again.  


	5. Hamlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dead squid pt. 2

Ophelia doesn’t dream.

It makes Fitz want to grab her and shake her, to wake her up suddenly and roughly, so that her eyes fly open and her heart starts pounding in her chest. He wants her to feel the way he does, night after night, waking up in a sweat, seized by terror, the nightmare still wrapped tightly around his mind.

He never does. Of course he doesn’t. As unfair as it is, he would never want her to feel the way that he does.

He would never want Ophelia to experience the thoughts running through his mind. The nightmare.

No, the memory.

Fitz pushes himself out of bed, scrubbing a hand across his face as he makes his way through the darkness toward the bedroom door. He can hear the steady sounds of Ophelia breathing beside him and figures that he should be grateful. For the past nine days, he’s had to listen to her tossing and turning, her brow furrowed.

Like he’s done the nights before, Fitz pours himself a drink, trying not to look at the clock, trying not to think of his father. Alistair had been by the penthouse only the day before, his tone apologetic even as his expression was insistent. “When will Ophelia be coming back to the Council? Or, if she isn’t fit, maybe you can take her place.”

Fitz hasn’t returned the man’s calls since.

And, like he’s done the nights before, Fitz takes his drink down the hall toward the bedroom that used to belong to his daughter. The room is still the way she left it the last morning she was…

He finishes his drink, sets the glass on the floor beside his feet. Fitz stands in the doorway, looking into the room, letting his eyes adjust to the light given off by the moon shining through the slanted blinds.

The room doesn’t feel like Lyra anymore, doesn’t smell like her, doesn’t sound like her. But still, Fitz can’t seem to make himself stop standing in the doorway, can’t stop himself from replaying the nightmares in his mind.

Holding Lyra in his arms.

Saying her name.

Unable to help her. Unable to do anything to save her.

The way it had felt to feel her chest fall and then-

Fitz jumps when a hand settles on his shoulder and he whirls around to face Ophelia, standing like a specter behind him. “Christ,” he mumbles, exhaling slowly. “What are you doing?”

Ophelia only looks at him. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I can’t sleep,” Fitz tells her tightly. “I can’t ever sleep anymore.”

Ophelia reaches for his hand, pulling him away from their daughter’s empty bedroom. He allows himself to follow her, to not look over his shoulder, to not listen for the sound of breathing in the darkness.

She pours them both a drink and Fitz takes the glass without pointing out that he’s already had one. He’s certain Ophelia already knows, certain she can smell it on his breath. He’s sure that she’s getting used to the smell, the lingering taste of it when he kisses her quickly in the mornings.

Ophelia goes to the balcony, pushing open the door and standing barefoot and bathed in moonlight. Fitz swallows, looking away from her. She looks even more like a ghost than she did in the hallway and she looks so much like-

It’s funny. He used to think Lyra looked so much like her mother. And now…the opposite.

The breeze is hot, lazy and stagnant, and Fitz feels it slip slowly across his skin as he goes to join Ophelia on the balcony. He watches her while she watches the twinkling orange lights of their city.

“It isn’t over,” Ophelia says finally, quietly, her drink untouched in her fingers. “We aren’t finished.”

Fitz swallows and he thinks of the conversation they’d had days before, when he’d come home to find the penthouse in a state of destruction and Ophelia in the middle of it. “Ophelia,” he says softly, “don’t.”

Ophelia still doesn’t look at him. “You can’t sleep. I can’t sleep. We’ll never be able to…” She swallows, one hand tightening around the balcony railing. “We owe it to her.”

Fitz tenses slightly. “She doesn’t know, Ophelia,” he says. “She doesn’t care.”

Ophelia looks at him, eyes flashing. “I care,” she says sharply. “I made a promise.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Fitz says flatly, knowing that it won’t make a difference.

And it doesn’t. Ophelia shakes her head. “I need you. I’m doing this for us.”

Fitz wants to argue, wants to assure her that he knows that isn’t true. But he doesn’t. He just finishes his drink, shaking his head, resigned. “I love you,” he tells her rotely. A reminder. A promise. An agreement.

* * *

 

Stephanie is very nearly dead. Fitz can see that the second he walks into her cell. It smells far worse than any of the other cells he’s visited down here, any of the other squalid prisons they’ve kept the Inhumans in. Of course, the Inhumans don’t last nearly as long as Stephanie has.

At least the little girl is gone. Fitz figures Stephanie should be grateful for that at least. Ophelia had looked nearly ready to claw out his eyes when he’d told her that he’d made the order to take her away. But she hadn’t protested, hadn’t countered. At least that part of their foundation was still in place, the promise they’d made to each other to fight only in the private of their penthouse and never in front of the Council.

Stephanie doesn’t look at him when he enters and Fitz pulls a chair behind him, sitting down in front of her. “They tell me you aren’t eating,” he says. “Or drinking.”

Stephanie sighs. “Why should I?”

Fitz shrugs. A fair point. He doesn’t know why it matters to him. He doesn’t know why he’s here, why he’s come to see her again.

This woman, the one who killed his daughter, who took Lyra from him. What she deserves is to stay here alone and in the dark until everyone has forgotten she even existed.

Stephanie finally looks up at him, eyes hollow and dark. “Why do you care?”

Fitz shrugs. “I don’t,” he says. “But I know Ophelia loves to come visit you. She’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

Stephanie scoffs, a dry sound. “Ophelia killed my daughter,” she says. “Fuck Ophelia.”

Fitz feels anger flash through him, white hot, and he tightens his hands into fists. “You killed my daughter,” he tells her, his voice a low rumble. “You murdered her. You took her from me.”

Stephanie shakes her head. “I stopped being sorry when I watched Augusta die,” she tells him frankly. “I’m not afraid of you anymore, Leo. What else can you possibly do to me?”

Fitz thinks of the little boy, the one with the white blonde hair and the sweet smile. The boy who played with his daughter, who laughed when she chased him across the sidewalk outside of their school, who always clung to his mother’s legs when he was uncertain and overwhelmed.

The boy who had looked up at Ophelia, uncertain but trusting enough to put his hand into the hand of the woman who had killed his sister.

“It’s over, Stephanie,” Fitz tells her finally, swallowing. “Soon you’re going to be the last one left.”

Stephanie’s eyes seem to sharpen as she ascertains his meaning. “No,” she says quietly and then, louder, “No!”

Stephanie seems almost surprised when she feels the tears drop onto her cheeks and Fitz can definitely relate to that. To the certainty that you couldn’t possibly have anything left to cry until your cheeks are damp again.

“No, no, Leo, no,” Stephanie says, shaking her head, her eyes wild and desperate. A dying woman with a sudden reason to want to live again. “Please, please, not him. Please not him. My Augustus. Please.”

Fitz swallows, watching her. “I’m sorry, Stephanie.” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them, flat and insincere. He realizes, watching her, listening to the sound of her begging, that he isn’t sorry at all. “You made this happen. You brought this on him. On both of them.”

Stephanie shakes her head, shivering against the ties on her red, raw wrists. “He’s my son, my child,” she says quietly. “Please don’t do this.”

“You know,” Fitz says as he exhales, “I’ll never forget the way it felt to have to tell Ophelia that Lyra was dead. Do you have any idea what that was like for me?”

Stephanie looks at him, growing silent, as though suddenly realizing that he hasn’t come here as her friend.

As if he ever did.

“The sound she made…when I told her…” Fitz forces the words out, trying to ignore the quickening in his heart and the tightness in his chest that makes it hard to breathe. “The sound…I’ll never forget that. And I just held onto her and she _begged_ me, God, she just begged me to tell her it wasn’t true. To make it better. To do something. Do you have any idea…” He swallows as his voice cracks, trying to force down the knot in his throat. “Do you have any idea how it felt…how it feels to be able to do nothing?”

Stephanie starts crying again, starts begging softly. It’s far from satisfying.

“You did that,” Fitz tells her. “You made me tell my wife her child was dead. You took my child from me. You…you did this to my family.”

“You aren’t like this, Leo,” Stephanie protests and Fitz wants to slap her, wants to shake her. “You aren’t like her. You aren’t that man. Please. You can stop her.”

Fitz thinks about that idea. Wonders if maybe, truly, he could stop Ophelia. If he held her close and told her to stop all this if she would.

But all he can think about this standing in the penthouse with Ophelia before coming here, looking at the little boy standing close to her, facing the inevitable and feeling nothing at all.

“I’ll help you,” he had said to her last night, standing out on the balcony in the brittle, hot air. “But I can’t kill a child.”

Ophelia had nodded, had held tightly to his hand. “I know.” She hadn’t seemed to think he was weak for those words. Had only seemed relieved.

Now, Fitz only shakes his head. “I could,” he tells Stephanie. “But I won’t.”

Stephanie heaves a sob, her head hanging down, her body too tired to fight any longer.

“This is the last time you’ll see me,” Fitz tells her, getting to his feet. “The last time you’ll see anyone. It’s over, Stephanie. Or,” he pauses, considering, certain of what he knows he’ll do by tonight, “it will be. Soon.”

He can only hope this is true. He’s so terribly ready for all of this to be over.

* * *

 

The little boy weighs almost nothing in his arms, wrapped tightly in the sheet stained with red. He and Ophelia had made an almost choreographed show of avoiding one another’s gaze as he’d come home to the penthouse. He hadn’t looked at her as he’d kissed her cheek, assured her that he would do this for her.

And he will.

He will do anything for her.

The light is still on in the office, just like Fitz knew it would be. The door is ajar and it creaks slightly when he nudges it open with his foot.

Hive doesn’t seem surprised to see him. This thing, seemingly so untroubled by the way everything is steadily crumbling around him. Unbothered by a dead daughter, a wife driven mad stories beneath his feet.

Fitz almost envies him.

Hive watches, silent, as Fitz lays the sheet there on the desk between them, relieved to be free of the small weight of it.

“I had wondered,” Hive says finally, “when this would be coming.”

Fitz swallows. It’s far easier for him to pull the gun from his pocket than it had been for him to carry the little boy here. It’s easier to aim the gun, to keep his hand from shaking.

“And,” Hive continues, “I’ve been wondering about this too.”

There’s nothing for Fitz to say, so he says nothing.

Hive smiles at him, a human gesture. “I didn’t kill your daughter.”

Fitz shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Ophelia’s words, spoken to him that morning, when they had stood together and decided what needed to be done.

“It won’t bring her back,” Fitz had said and the words had hurt his heart, had done little to assuage the ache there. Or the sudden burn that had passed through him, the desire to follow her plan, to hurt everyone he could.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ophelia had told him, her tone straightforward.

And, Fitz figures, she had been right.

It doesn’t matter.

And so he pulls the trigger.


	6. Gratiano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murder verse birthday

Lyra butts her head impatiently against Fitz’s abdomen, her sudden decision to launch an assault catching him by surprise and causing him to wince. It’s one of the things he’d never really anticipated about being a father: the sudden attacks that came disguised as gestures of love.

“Daddy,” Lyra draws the word out to give it three additional syllables, “hurry up! Hurry up!”

Fitz sidesteps another attempt at a headbutt but Lyra isn’t discouraged, dancing around him and tugging on the bottom of his shirt. “Blow out the candles! So we can have cake!”

“Lyra, why don’t you come help me,” Ophelia says, her tone a perfect mixture of love and exasperation. “If we put on the candles together it will take less time.”

Lyra hurries into the kitchen and Fitz smiles, shaking his head. He sits at the dining room table, watching mother and daughter as they put the finishing touches on the birthday cake he insisted that he really didn’t need. Of course, there’s no dissuading a seven-year-old who wants birthday cake and balloons and presents, even if they aren’t for her. Not that Fitz minds sharing any of this with Lyra; what does he need it for anyway? He’ll be forty soon enough, a few years down the road, and he’s never been one for birthdays anyway. Never really even celebrated them until he met Ophelia.

He remembers the first birthday he shared with her, when he turned eighteen and she’d shown up at his Academy dorm room after a never-enforced curfew, her eyes as accusatory as her tone as she’d asked why he hadn’t mentioned it was his birthday. He hadn’t even been able to answer before she was giving him a cupcake, a single candle stuck in the top and they had eaten it much later, sharing the frosting and cake as they lay tangled in bed together. He’d never thought to ask her how she’d known it was his birthday, only imagined Ophelia Pierce taking the time to comb through files about him, learning this fact, deciding to act upon it immediately. He hadn’t fallen in love with her all at once, just through little moments like that one.

Of course, his birthdays have been different over the past several years. No more romantic dinners, cupcakes with single candles, languid and lazy sex throughout a day taken off from work. Lyra’s exuberance for birthdays has extended past her own, demanding cakes and singing and decorations even for her parents.

Lyra comes hurrying into the dining room, leading the way for Ophelia, carefully carrying the cake that Fitz knows she and Lyra baked earlier that morning. The frosting job has clearly been done by Lyra, as hastily done as the candles sticking crookedly out from the top.

“Happy Birthday Daddy!” Lyra cries happily and Fitz lifts her into his lap, kissing the side of her head. She giggles and leans against him.

Ophelia smiles and Fitz lifts his head so he can kiss her much too briefly.

“Help me blow out the candles, Ly?” Fitz asks, though it’s a formality, really. Lyra would have blown them out whether he asked her to or not.

Ophelia lights them and Lyra does most of the singing, her voice loud and off-key (something else she inherited from her mother) and Fitz can feel her wiggling impatiently in his lap, eager for her slice of cake. At the count of three, he lets her blow out of the candles on his cake, more than happy to surrender any type of birthday wish to her. He isn’t sure what he would wish for anyway; he loves his wife, his daughter, this house they have together, his position in the world.

Though, when Ophelia gives him another kiss, Fitz figures that maybe there is something still worth wishing for after all.

“Let’s have cake now, Daddy,” Lyra says impatiently and-

And Fitz jerks awake suddenly, the sound of someone singing happy birthday ringing in his ears.

Someone. His daughter.

A memory.

Because his daughter is dead.

Has been for months now. Eighty-three days. Not that he’s counting.  

Fitz closes his eyes, pressing his face into his pillow, wishing more than anything that he could go back to sleep. That he could sleep for days, weeks, at a time. That there was never anything he had to do aside from slip into the blessed blackness of a dreamless sleep and just forget everything.

Of course, there are the nights where his mind has different plans for him. Where he dreams of Lyra and wakes up uncertain of what is real and what’s the dream.

It doesn’t take him long to remember.

Fitz feels a twinge in his chest, a solid reminder of Lyra’s absence. It’ll never disappear, he knows, even here, in this new house, which reminds him little of Lyra. Reminds him little of anything at all, honestly.

He can hear the sound of the waves, crashing against the beach, through the open window. Can smell salt in the air. Ophelia has always loved it here; he brought them here mostly for her but also because he couldn’t stand to walk by that closed door anymore.

Fitz opens his eyes, rolls over, finds himself facing an empty expanse of bed beside him. He should have known Ophelia wasn’t there when he woke up from his dream, when she didn’t reach out to rest her hand against his chest. She touches him easier now, more often, their touches not needing to be just about fucking and forgetting everything. It’s getting like it used to be before, when they needed no excuse to reach out and use one another as a touchstone.

Fitz stares at the empty space, feeling a twinge of disappointment, a hint of betrayal.

Today is his birthday. And Ophelia is gone.

His daughter is gone too.

Fitz closes his eyes, trying to push aside the memory of his last birthday, the one where he had a daughter to badly wrap a present, to badly frost a cake, to badly sing him “Happy Birthday” at the top of her lungs.

He had woken up last year to Ophelia kissing him, lazy and slow, neither of them in much of a rush to do anything at all because they’d known they would be interrupted soon enough. And they had been, smiling ruefully at the way the bedroom door banged against the wall, the way Lyra had come charging into the room, flinging herself onto the bed. Lyra had settled there between them, nestled in the arms of both of her parents, chattering happily about birthdays and presents.

This year, he has nothing.

Fitz looks at the bedroom door, slightly ajar. He looks at the bed beside him: empty.

At least part of this, he knows, will never change. Lyra will never throw herself into his arms, never again wish him a happy birthday. There will never be another card with a cartoon animal on the front and Lyra’s carefully printed name down at the bottom.

It seems terribly cruel, all of the sudden, for him be getting older while Lyra never will.

Fitz rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling, listening to the waves outside. If he stays like this all day, he thinks, he might be able to pretend like there’s nothing out of the ordinary about any of this, like this is just another day, and maybe it will slide away with minimal pain and he can just ignore everything.

When the door squeaks as it opens the rest of the way, that’s exactly what Fitz does: he ignores it.

He can see Ophelia out of the corner of his eye, can feel the bed dip as she sits down beside him. She doesn’t say anything and, for a beat, neither does he. Fitz wonders if she’s been thinking the same things he has, if she’s been playing the memories over in her mind, remembering how things used to be.

Or if she, too, has decided to just ignore this day. If they’ve somehow made a subconscious and shared decision to pretend like there’s nothing they should be focusing on.

Fitz finally turns to look at her and Ophelia smiles at him, soft and tentative, not a real smile but one that shows that she’s trying, that an effort is being made.

In her hands is a single cupcake, a candle stuck carefully into the top.

He sees her as she was nearly twenty years ago, fiery and annoyed, but still smiling. “Why didn’t you tell me it was birthday?” She’d asked even as she’d stepped into his dorm room.

Now, Ophelia just says, “Happy birthday, Leopold” and he sits up, taking the scene in. He looks at her and the cupcake in her hand.

It had been this way once before, a tradition of sorts, when it was just the two of them.

And so, it seems, it will be this way again.

Fitz takes the cupcake, sets it on the nightstand so that he has both hands free. One he settles on Ophelia’s waist, the other curls around the nape of her neck as he kisses her softly, without anything particular in mind. Just a gesture, a kiss, a connection. A need to be close to her.

And she kisses him back and neither of them say anything at all.

And later, when she lights the candle and insists -half joking, half apologetic- that he blow out the flame, Fitz doesn’t make a wish.


End file.
